My Boy
by Ros3bud009
Summary: Sealand asks about liking people and England reconsiders his life choices. No pairings, just fluff.


"Have you ever really, _really _liked anyone?"

England does not even put down his book to look over at the boy. "Despite what you may like to think, I have been in relationships."

"I've never seen you with someone."

"…I'm between relationships at the moment."

The boy purses his lips before climbing up onto the arm chair, balanced precariously on the arm of it. "So then you've liked someone before? Like, reaaaaaally liked someone?"

With a sigh, England puts down the book and looks over the top of his reading glasses. "Yes. Why?"

"No reason." The boy squirms where he is balanced. England sighs to himself - what was he thinking, doing this whole guardian thing all over again? Surely he was too old for it.

And yet the man could never deny how much he loves to have some small boy at his side, small and stubborn and an absolute brat.

_His_ brat.

Sometimes England wishes he did not have to hand most of the duties of raising the boy to those two. They are kinder and far better parents than he could ever hope to be. Centuries of being an empire and still he is terrible as a guardian. This boy deserves better – that was what England had told himself when he called up the man who would become the boy's Papa.

But still, they could not – cannot – take a moment like this from England.

He puts the book to one side, slips his glasses off his face, and with a swift hand he pulls the boy into his lap. Oh how he squirms! The room is filled with boyish squeals as the boy tries to escape, but England will have none of that.

"Come now, sit down and tell your old man who it is you like!"

"No no no! Let go, you jerk!" he shouts, but England does not miss the grin tugging at the boy's cheeks. It only eggs him on as he all but cradles him just right.

"Is it Liechtenstein? Older women do have a certain attractiveness to them…"

"Jerk! I'm going to get you for this!"

"Or Latvia? Older men are also pretty charming-"

"Shut uuuuuuup!" The boy is strong – being the personification of a metal structure, he had always had extra strength in his muscles and bones – but England had wrestled with America's superhuman strength enough to know where to grab, where to hold, and how to contort a body so that strength is useless in the effort to free one's self.

When the boy realizes he is trapped, he frowns and slowly stops. "I'm not telling you."

"But there is someone."

"Shut up, jerk!" England just chuckles and, when it is clear that the boy has no interest in escaping anymore, puts his glasses back on. Silence settles in the room; England returns to his reading while the small body curled up in his lap eventually nuzzles close, inch by inch, as if the other might not notice.

"…Do you think they could like me back?"

All of England's confidence in his abilities to maintain the moment slips from his grasp. What is the right answer? What if he says absolutely, but they turn the boy down, and he feels he was lied to? But he can't say anything but yes, lest he break the boy's heart.

England worries at his lips, his heavy brows furrowing, his heart starting to race.

But then those eyes are on him. Those big, young, innocent eyes; eyes that have not even seen more than a handful of decades, let alone a century, or a millennia; eyes that are looking to him for an answer.

England wishes more than ever that he could have kept this child to raise all on his own.

"They would have to be fools to not love you." The words come out all on their own, perfectly formed, perfectly adequate.

The boy, against all the odds, blushes until his cheeks are rosy red. Just as soon as it is there, he is hiding it against England's shirt.

"You're stupid."

"And you're a brat," England retorts. "And it's past your bedtime."

"Not going."

"You need to sleep. I am not sending you back with bags under your eyes."

"I'll sleep here."

"Fine."

"But I—wait, what?"

"I said fine." The boy does not say anything in response, but just curls up. Comfortable silence sets in as England returns to his reading whilst cradling the child in his arms.

Eventually a tired yawn sneaks out. "Night, jerk."

England smiles. Sometimes the term feels like it is his own special name; that there is Papa and Mama, and there is Jerk. He is happy to accept it as endearment in its own way.

"Goodnight."

"And… thanks. I guess.

England presses a kiss to the boy's head – there is a small grunt in protest, but that is all.

"You're welcome. Now go to sleep. I don't need your Papa glaring at me because you didn't sleep."

"Would serve you right."

"Sleep."

"Fine. Goodnight, England."

Tomorrow Finland and Sweden will come to pick him up, and the huge smile on the boy's face when he sees them will break England's heart just a bit. But for now, it is just them. Him and this boy.

England and Sealand.

"Goodnight, my boy."


End file.
